Page 9 of The Reaper

He nodded. “I’ll have these ready when you’re done shopping. I’ll throw in a free bookmark.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind.” I headed to the next stall, where the delicious smell of artisan bread was coming from. I was hungry all of a sudden. The crowd parted for a split second, and there he was, the guy with the motorcycle helmet, facing my direction.

I darted toward him but a mob of people formed in front of me, meandering and blocking my view. I craned my neck to see if he was still there, but he was gone as fast as he’d appeared.

True to his word, my personalized purchase, including the complimentary leather bookmark, was completed when I rounded back to Zac’s stall. “Thanks for this.” I waved the bookmark at him before tucking it into one of the travel books I’d bought from the market and headed off, cornering the street.

A roar reverberated behind me and a speeding motorcycle zipped by my side. It was going so fast, all I saw was a flash of black. A couple more feet and it would have crashed into me.

“Whoa.” I shook my head. What a morning.

Six: The Reaper

Ihadn’t planned on creeping up on the priest. But after my failed lay, my blue balls were about to fall off and that would be a tragic way to go. “What the fuck am I doing?” I asked myself. Answers flooded my brain but there wasn’t one good enough for me to retrieve. It was too late anyway. I was nothing if not persistent. Plus, I doubted he would recognize me behind my tinted helmet shield.

Although, I must admit that a small part of me wanted him to know it was me.

The clown of a man selling the leather crap was lucky it was daylight and we were in public, because he would’ve been in the hospital wearing a full body cast had it been any other day. Was it too much? Maybe, but lessons had to be learned.

I made it to the priest’s home minutes before him, since he walked to the center of town. I knew that too since I’d staked claim in front of his house, between two parked vans, after my interrupted fuck session at Club Z. I was patiently waiting for another glimpse of the priest to take with me when I jerked off. A sight of his face would have sufficed. But when he came out of his brick house, it was a no-brainer from there.

After giving the priest a few minutes—and a five-block head start—I engaged in what I did best: tracking my target down like a predator hunting his prey. I stalked his every movement until he visited the last stalls.

I parked my bike in an alley behind the church. It was close enough to dash to in case of a disaster, but far enough away to stay out of sight. After setting a timer on my wristwatch, I jogged to the bishop’s house. If my calculations were correct, like always, I had twenty minutes to spare before the priest made his way home. That would be enough time to find out more about Father Saint James.

A woman and a man who appeared to be around my age came out of the church, causing me to stop in my tracks. I turned my back on them as they neared me, sliding my leather gloves from my hands before tucking them in my pocket. They seemed to be unaware of my presence as they carried on their conversation.

“How do you like the new bishop?” the man asked.

“I like him. He seems very nice,” the woman answered. “He’s a little green, but he’ll be okay.”

Their voices hushed as they moved further away until their conversation evaporated. I glanced behind me just as they made their turn-off to the next street. I crept to the brick building matching the church’s facade, canvassing the interior of the house through the glass windows before heading in the door. One twist of the knob let me know that it was locked, unsurprisingly. It was Boston, after all. Not even the holiest of places could escape the reality that men like me existed in the city.

I made my way to the backyard while keeping a close eye on the road and the church. It was past noon—in the middle of the week—and I doubted anyone was around. If there were people inside the church, the likelihood of them being tourists was high and they wouldn’t know I wasn’t supposed to be there.

Here we go. One of the windows by the kitchen was open halfway. And before pulling it all the way up, I checked behind me once again to make sure no one was nearby. I hoisted my body off the ground, thankful that the window frame held my two-hundred-and-ten-pound ass without breaking in half. Swiftly and quietly, I stretched my legs inside, one at a time, maneuvering into the house across the marble counter, while pausing and waiting for any hints of movement in between action. After several seconds passed and still no sign of anyone, I hopped off the counter, treading gingerly all the way to the living room with my back against the wall. I made my way to the window facing the church, separating the wooden blinds with my fingers to inspect outside before pulling them shut. Tiptoeing to the other side, I did the same with the ones facing the street.

Feeling somewhat secure, I moved around the house and stopped by the fireplace, where a photograph of the priest sat over the mantle. He stared back at me. I traced a gloved finger from his blue eyes to his red lips parted for a smile. I fished my cell phone out of my jacket pocket and snapped a couple of pictures before continuing my search.

My leg brushed an ottoman, causing it to slide out of place. It was a slight shift, but you never knew how much the priest would notice. I adjusted it back to where it was, making my presence as stealth as possible, leaving no trace of myself behind. Passing through a hallway adorned by a framed image of the Pope and a wooden cross, I made my way to one of the bedrooms and opened the closet in front of a well-made bed covered with decorative pillows. It was empty, with nothing but wooden hangers in it.

In the other bedroom, the larger of the two, I knew I’d found what I was looking for when a familiar scent greeted me. Like the other room, the bed was made but in a more functional way, without the exorbitant number of pillows occupying almost half of the surface. Behind me was a closet, twice the size of the one next door. I pulled it open, revealing a row of black shirts hung neatly on the left side of the wardrobe. Twelve of them, to be exact. To the right was a selection of ornate robes of different colors; white, green, purple, and maroon. Polished black leather shoes lined the floor of the closet, each pair placed about four inches from the next. A small wicker basket positioned against the wall had a couple of garments inside. I reached down and pulled a black shirt from the pile. It was the epicenter of the scent. I tugged the shirt to my nose, breathing in as much of Father Saint James as possible.

My watch vibrated, letting me know I had five minutes before the priest opened the door. A groan escaped my mouth while my cock stirred back to life from the visceral thrill of being caught and the urge to orgasm. I rolled the short-sleeve shirt up and tucked it into my pants before closing the closet door, leaving it the way I’d found it—minus the shirt. I zipped back to the kitchen, wiping the shoe prints off the countertop with my handkerchief, remembering to close the window halfway. I left out of the back door, keeping it locked as I walked out.

As expected, there was a rattling of keys at the front door about the same time the back door closed. I waited for a couple of minutes until the priest was inside before heading out to the street, ducking when I passed the windows.

A black SUV had been trailing me for a few blocks since I’d left the priest’s home. I’d made a mental note of its license plate and had been keeping a close eye on it through my side mirror. It could well be my paranoia, but my gut was telling me otherwise. I twisted the throttle and sped up, curving a hairpin turn, riding my motorcycle against the traffic. Its deep rumble reverberated through the canyon of Boston’s skyscrapers.

Horns blasted. Drivers cursed at my disregard for their safety.

Watching the black SUV through my mirrors, I saw it run a red light, which confirmed my suspicions.

After parking my motorcycle, I scrolled through my contact list and pressed Zero’s name. She was one of the best hackers out there. I’d only spoken with her on the phone since her base of operations was in a remote mountain cabin in Vermont. “What’s up, boo? Miss me already?” she asked when she picked up my call.

“I need you to run something for me.” I made my way to the elevator of my apartment.

“What do you have?” Sounds of keyboard clicking carried through the receiver.

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